CARPE DIEM or RATHER BE LUCKY THAN GOOD excerpts from THE JOURNEY from Vietnam to Iraq

C-Rations were canned food developed during WWII. Since they didn’t have a shelf life, the REMF’s (Rear Echelon Motherfuckers) at Disneyland East (The Pentagon) decided to use the last war’s leftovers to feed this war. The C-Rations cases were packaged with an assortment of meals, twelve meals to a case. You turned the carton upside down so as not to tell what kind of meal you were grabbing. The taste of the meal wasn’t bad, with one exception. Everyone wanted to trade their “Beans and Motherfuckers”… a widely used colloquial term for lima beans and ham. Tough to choke down even when hungry. 

The Marines adopted a phrase called ratfucking. The term originated in the 1960s as political slang for “dirty tricks.” The Marines added to the definition with the meaning “rooting through an assortment of items, only taking what you want.” A case of C-rations would be frequently ratfucked, only taking the desirable meals leaving the rest for those that came late. No one wanted the can of “Beans and Motherfuckers” discarding the undesirable entree into the bush.

Every Marine unit operating in The Arizona Territory had either been in a firefight or sustained casualties by booby traps. With fourteen members in a squad, you had roughly a six percent chance of becoming a casualty. Marines accepted those odds when they put on the uniform and chose to wear the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor. Pathological? Probably.

The helicopters inserted us into a rice paddy, fertilized with human excrement. Once over the LZ, the helo hovered three feet off the ground. We jumped off the ramp and sunk into the muck. The rice paddy was two clicks from our night position. Not only were we soaked from the waist down with shit water but we would have to hump nearly a mile and a half before dark. 

Once clear of the rotors, we dispersed into a tactical circle, took our positions, weapons off safe, and waited to see if Charlie wanted to engage in any extracurricular activity. By now, after lying in a stale rice paddy for thirty minutes, we were ready for some action, hoping our squalid waterpark visit wouldn’t be for naught. But, no contact. When all aircraft were clear and out of the area, we saddled up and moved to our night position. 

Walking down the trail in a staggered column, I was right behind the FNG (Fuckin New Guy), just out of charm school (an in-country orientation) and gung-ho to get his cherry popped. He volunteered to walk point. His name was Riley, a four-year college grad who we nicknamed GPA. During his four years in a high-priced, overrated institute of higher learning, he experienced student protests and classes canceled due to the SDS (Student for Democratic Society) riots and takeover of the college administration buildings, threatening the professors and staff. His formal education after his baccalaureate took a hiatus. 

Riley thought all this pseudo-scholastic bedlam was ridiculous and, because of this anarchy, found the curriculum watered down, geared toward the loudest voices on campus. He knew this chaos stymied his formal learning experience, so after finishing his undergraduate degree, he opted for a master’s degree in “life.”

With his baccalaureate degree completed, GPA said he needed to complete his education and find out what all the antiwar commotion was. To fully mature, he felt he needed to experience a “Halls of Montezuma” moment. He didn’t want a second lieutenant commission and a four-year obligation, so he took the enlisted route and a two-year sign-up. Back in the rear, we screwed with GPA. We told him to find a bucket and fill it with rotor wash, go get some “fallopian tubes” for the mortars, or see the supply sergeant and order five yards of flight line. He was good-natured about the ball-busting. 

The cool thing about GPA, and other bush Marines that had a few years of college, was the pedagogic “rapping” they engaged in. Whenever we had downtime, a few of us would get together and “rap,” taken from the word rapport. The conversation would start with someone bringing up a subject—meaning of life, marriage, colonialism, the hippy movement, who developed liquid soap, and why? Everyone engaged. It was like taking a course in liberal arts. 

An example, when the subject of “getting blown away” came up, GPA expounded by quoting B. R. Ambedkar with, “Man is mortal. Everyone has to die someday.” Shit! I just received three college credit hours in philosophy. Of course, we would paraphrase Ambedkar’s, “We all die someday,” with “It don’t mean nothin’.” 

As we patrolled down the jungle path, my head was on a swivel, trying hard to maintain situational awareness and not let GPA do anything stupid. Then, as I stepped forward with my left heel, I felt an object under my jungle boot rotating slightly downward. Instantly my combat instincts mobilized, senses elevated with a realization I might be in a “shit sandwich.”

My first thought, a Bouncing Betty! A booby trap, when tripped, the explosive charge was propelled 3 to 4 feet into the air, where the charge detonated, spraying lethal fragments above the waist. Or was it a pressure-released explosive device where you armed the trigger by stepping on the plate? Stepping off the plate and removing the pressure from the device detonated the bomb. 

In the bush, death is the constant default setting. But the thought of surviving the blast and losing your legs, or worse, having your genitals scattered amongst the elephant grass, was not a preferred way to show up at your five-year class reunion. Damn, so much for the high school football hero. 

So, what’s next? I halted the squad in place and motioned to Sugar Bear, the squad leader. He came up, and I advised him of the situation. After a “No screaming eagle shit” comment from Bear, he gave me that, now what do we do look. I suggested, “We treat this as a booby trap. Move the rest of the squad a safe distance yet still tactically deployed. Place flak jackets around my feet to decrease the frag pattern. Call in a medevac to be on standby and develop an exit plan.”

Sarcastically Sugar Bear quipped, “Sounds easy.” 

With no further discussion, we placed flak jackets around my feet and lower legs. Once all the body armor was in place, I planned to dive out of the flak jacket encasement, stay prone on the ground, and hope for the best— shrapnel in the buttock, and a trip to Hawaii for a three-week rehab, the million-dollar wound. Worst case, I stumble out of the flak jacket encasement and absorb the entire brunt of the explosion. What the hell? It don’t mean nothin’.

The medevac chopper was called and had an eight-minute estimated arrival. An LZ was identified and secured with green smoke on the ready. Once the bird was overhead, I would execute my best Sue Gossick, three-meter 1968 Olympic diving performance. Yeah, right. I’d be lucky enough to propel my ass far enough away to get a safe distance between the executioner and me. 

As I stood there, careful not to release any pressure, a myriad of thoughts fired my synapses—Purgatory or Hell? The Stones or the Yardbirds? Katharine Ross or Natalie Wood? Have I kissed my last, have I sung my last, have I lasted beyond my shelf life? 

The medevac helo checked in on-station, escorted by two snakes (Cobra Gunship). Expectations were if this was a pressure release device, the explosion would be instantaneous once I lifted my foot and released the pressure. A pool of blood, dog tags, and small chunks of body parts would be the only thing left for the corpsman to bag. 

If a Bouncing Betty, once the pressure was relieved, the projectile would go airborne, take approximately two seconds for detonation; the guillotine would have done its job.  

I did a quick head nod to Sugar Bear, letting him know I was about to jump out of the pile of flak jackets. I then gave a boisterous “Fire in the hole,” and dove out of the flak jacket encasement headed toward Oahu or the afterlife. A made a perfect landing, 9.8 score from the American judge with a 4.3 from the Russian. 

While the “fog of war” consumed our staging area, an eerie quiet ate into the oppressive heat and humidity. Aside from the deafening raucous of my carotid artery, the only other sound was a “What the fuck” shout out from the tree line, then a breathless quiet replaced by nervous laughter.  

With no explosion, body parts, or entrails scattered over the jungle path, we waited for a safe interval, then carefully moved to the displaced flak jackets. I intended to find the cause of today’s disruption. We slowly moved the flak jackets away from the spot where I experienced my “Come to Jesus” moment. 

One by one, we cleared the flak jacket area to inspect the impression left by my heel. I pulled out my KA-Bar, a seven-inch straight edge utility fighting knife, and slowly began to probe around the spot. 

At first, I made large concentric circles, then smaller circles, each one getting closer to the center of the action. Within a three-inch radius, my probing hit her “G” spot. 

My anxiety level shot up. I took a couple of deep breaths, and then I continued probing. I slowly placed my left hand over the incision, carefully brushed the dirt back, then moved my KA-Bar under the item and began feeling for electrical wiring. Nothing under the spot. 

After minutes of not so assured self-assurance and frenzy probing, I reached the cause of our commotion, then used my KA-Bar knife to leverage the obscure device out of the ground. At first, gently, still unsure about its lethality. The KA-Bar’s pace quickened as the item came into view. 

There it was, the mysterious item that jacked up our excitement for the last thirty minutes, the conundrum that held thirteen seasoned combat Marines captive. The mysterious source of an old man’s war story.… A damn C-ration can. The relief was as intoxicating as a contact high at a Who Concert.

With a few chuckles at the encounter, we saddled up and continued on our mission, keeping the world safe for democracy. Before throwing the can into the weeds, I took my towel and wiped off the mud to read the label. 

There it was ‘Beans and Motherfuckers’ … It don’t mean nothin’.